White Christmas

© Emma Lee-Potter,
2012, all rights reserved

Emma Lee-Potter has
asserted her rights under the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988, to be
identified as the author of this work. First published 2012 by Endeavour Press
Ltd.

About the Author

Emma Lee-Potter is a novelist and journalist. She has
written three novels, Hard Copy, Moving On and Taking Sides, and is the author
of House With No Name (http://housewithnoname.blogspot.co.uk), an entertaining
blog about life, children, books, film and France.

Emma’s books have been widely praised:

‘pacy expose… tightly written, with snappy dialogue’ Daily
Mail

‘fast and furious’ Daily Mirror

‘couldn’t put it down’ Best

‘If you enjoy pace, dialogue and a glimpse of life behind
the headlines, you’ll love this’ Belfast Telegraph

‘An authentic witty insight into life behind the headlines’
Books Magazine

This is a work of fiction. All names, characters,
organisations, circumstances and events in this publication are entirely
fictional and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely
coincidental and completely unintentional.

Contents

ONE

TWO

THREE

FOUR

FIVE

SIX

SEVEN

EIGHT

NINE

TEN

ELEVEN

EXTRACT FROM OLYMPIC
FLAMES

ONE

As the strains of Silent Night drifted across the piazza at
Covent Garden, Lizzie Foster blinked back the tears.

She had to face it. Christmas was just three weeks away and
she was dreading it.

She usually loved the lead-up to the big day. Decorating the
tree, buying presents, planning her outfit for the office party – she couldn’t
get enough of it all.

But this year she hadn’t done a single thing. In fact today
was the first day she’d felt up to making a start on her Christmas shopping.
Not that she had much to buy. Just presents for her parents, her brother and
sister-in-law, the guys at work and… well, it sounded pathetic, but that was it
really. On the plus side though, at least she didn’t have to bother looking for
obscure bits of hi-fi kit and garish cycling gear for Rob this year. After
cheating on her – and lying through his teeth about it – he was out of her life
for good.

It was six o’clock on a Tuesday evening and Covent Garden
was packed. Despite the news bulletins about the dire state of the economy,
Christmas shoppers were out in force. Lizzie had waited in line for twenty
minutes to buy Nigella’s latest cookery book for her sister-in-law. In the end
she’d given up and decided to order the book from Amazon instead.

After an hour’s shopping, Lizzie had only bought two
presents - a panettone for her mum, which would no doubt sit in the kitchen
cupboard for a year and then get chucked away, and a fake tattoo sleeve for her
brother, who was inclined to take himself a touch too seriously.
 

Covent Garden was only ten minutes walk from Lizzie’s office
and the whole area had thrown itself into the Christmas spirit with a
vengeance. A massive Christmas tree, decked with stylish red baubles, glittered
at one end of the piazza while scores of giant mirror balls and candy canes
dangled from the ceiling of the market hall.

A stall selling mulled wine and roast chestnuts was doing
brisk business in the chill night air and Lizzie joined the back of the queue.
Mindful that she was on the early shift the next day, she steered clear of the
mulled wine and ordered a skinny latte in a festive red and white cup. She
found a table outside, dumped her bags at her feet and tried to put all her
worries about work and Rob and what the hell she was going to do about
Christmas out of her mind.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the noisy arrival of a
group of angelic looking children in scarlet school uniforms. A smiley,
middle-aged teacher assembled the chattering boys and girls into a neat cluster,
handed out a stack of music and unfolded a battered music stand.

As the children threw themselves into a jolly rendition of
The Holly and the Ivy, Lizzie bit the insides of her cheeks and willed herself
not to cry. She didn’t know why, but even in happier times the sound of
children’s singing always reduced her to tears.

Lizzie managed pretty well until the choir started their
next carol, but the moment she heard the opening bars of Silent Night she
couldn’t contain her sadness. The floodgates opened and tears streamed down her
cheeks. She brushed them away angrily with the back of her hand.

‘Are you all right?’

Embarrassed that someone had spotted her tears, Lizzie
glanced up. A little girl of about seven or eight was sitting on her own at the
next table. She was wrapped up warmly in a navy blue duffle coat and a jaunty
cerise beret with a big bow on the front. She had a comic in front of her and a
small pink teddy bear on her lap.

‘I’m fine,’ said Lizzie, making an effort to smile through
her tears. ‘Really I am. I know this probably sounds silly, but I always cry
when I hear carols.’

A puzzled look appeared on the girl’s face.

‘Why do you do that?’ she asked. ‘Carols are about
Christmas. They’re not sad songs. I don’t think they are, anyway.’

‘No, they’re not,’ agreed Lizzie. ‘Well, most of them
aren’t. So I should stop crying at them, shouldn’t I?’

‘Yes,’ said the girl happily. ‘You should.’

The child’s toothy beam was so infectious that Lizzie
suddenly felt a million times better. Her mood was dashed the next second,
however, when a tall man in his mid thirties banged a tray laden with two mugs
of steaming hot chocolate and a plate of cookies down on the little girl’s
table and frowned. He was tall, with dark curly hair and icy blue eyes, and dressed
in a well-cut business suit.

‘Are you OK, darling?’ he asked the little girl. ‘Who’s this
you’re talking to?’

‘I was asking the lady why she was crying, Daddy,’ said the
girl. ‘She seemed sad.’

‘I wasn’t,’ muttered Lizzie. She edged her chair back and
made a concerted effort not to catch the little girl’s eye. ‘We weren’t really
talking about anything, were we? Just about the carols.’

All of a sudden the man’s shoulders relaxed and he sat down
next to his daughter.

‘Look, I’m sorry,’ he said, staring hard at Lizzie. ‘It’s
been a long day. I didn’t mean to quiz you…’

‘It’s fine,’ murmured Lizzie. ‘I’d probably do the same in
your position.’

The man’s eyes met her own, then widened in surprise.

‘Don’t I know you?’

Lizzie’s heart sank. What a ridiculous question. And how the
bloody hell was she supposed to answer it? Yes, I’m a weather forecaster.
You’ve probably seen me on TV. And yes, I know I look a tiny bit like Jessie J,
only not half so pretty. It was the sort of thing people said all the time - and
she never knew how to react.

‘Er, I don’t think so.’

‘You look incredibly familiar. I’m sure we must have met
somewhere.’

‘She says you haven’t, Daddy,’ piped up the little girl.

The man still appeared puzzled, but he patted his daughter’s
hand absent-mindedly. ‘Come on, India. Drink up your hot chocolate, darling.
We’ve got to get you back to Mummy in half an hour.’

Feeling awkward, Lizzie stood up and grabbed hold of her
shopping. At least the interlude had taken her mind off the carols. And
Christmas too, for that matter.

‘Look, it’s time I was going,’ she said. ‘Lovely to meet
you.’

As he watched her go, the man stared thoughtfully after her.
He’d definitely seen her before. The question was – where?

TWO

Hal Benson smoothed his crumpled charcoal jacket, adjusted
the livid pink tie he’d borrowed from a friend and cleared his throat noisily.
His mouth was dry and he’d started to sweat under the bright studio lights. He
couldn’t for the life of him work out why he was so nervous. For goodness sake,
he’d performed in front of thousands of people before. He’d played Macduff at
Stratford-upon-Avon without batting an eyelid, and had even appeared in a Tom
Cruise movie once. It had only been a tiny part, admittedly, and his five seconds
of fame had ended up on the cutting room floor, but all the same, he was a
professional actor. And this, well this was just play-acting.

In eight years of acting, Hal had never worked anywhere as
garish as this place. He half-wished he’d brought a pair of sunglasses with
him. The whole studio was painted in an acid yellow, with a giant black clock
on the main wall and a vast red curved sofa in front of it. There was a
Christmas tree in one corner, covered in red and yellow baubles, and a
life-sized model of Father Christmas in the other. Red and yellow were clearly
the TV station’s signature colours.

At that moment a young studio manager with a bulky pair of
headphones clamped to her ears took him by the arm. She guided him to the
left-hand side of the sofa and instructed him to stand in front of a
translucent screen.

‘You’ll see a faint image of the graphics appear,’ she told
Hal. ‘The image will give you an idea of where to point and you can use the
remote clicker we’ve given you to move on to the next graphic. Is that clear?’

As clear as mud, thought Hal, but he nodded brightly and
said ‘sure.’

After she’d walked off the set, a surly-looking cameraman
dressed from head to toe in black wheeled a bulky camera in Hal’s direction.

‘Right, Hal,’ he said. ‘We can’t hang around here all day.
Some of us have got homes to go to. We’re ready for you now. Are you set?’

Without waiting for an answer, the crew sprang into action.
Hal hesitated for a fraction of a second, then launched into the script he’d
spent the last forty-five minutes learning by heart. At least that was one
thing he was good at.

Once he got going, Hal’s nerves vanished. He hadn’t done any
TV work for a year but he only had to smell the greasepaint and see the bright
lights and it was like he’d never been away. Like an ageing film star really,
except he hadn’t hit thirty yet. The take went so well that he even managed a
bit of cheery ad-libbing at the end. Mind you, the orange pan-stick they’d
smothered all over his face felt dire. He’d have to do something about that if
he got the job.

As he wrenched off the borrowed tie and undid the top button
of his shirt once more, the director bustled over. Tim Browne, a portly man
with a red face and a shock of ginger hair, had joined Last Ditch News soon after
the opening of the independent TV station three years ago and had the final
word on everything.

‘Hey, Henry, that wasn’t half-bad,’ he said, slapping Hal
hard on the back.

‘Er, thanks Tim. That’s great. But it’s Hal, by the way. Hal
Benson. Not Henry.’

‘Whatever,’ said Tim, beaming with relief that after
countless auditions over the last two days he’d finally found someone who
looked wholesome, sounded convincing and could memorise a script. The viewers
would love him. ‘You’re hired by the way. For the next four weeks. We’ll start
you on the breakfast show tomorrow – so you’ll need to be here at four on the
dot. That’s four a.m. No turning over and going back to sleep. Actually, I tell
you what, as it’s your first day we’ll push the boat out and send a car round
to pick you up. But after that you’re on your own. You’ll have to make your own
way to the studio. You OK with all that?’

‘Yeah,’ smiled Hal. Then, worried that he sounded too
laid-back, he stepped forward to shake Tim by the hand.

‘And one other thing,’ said Tim, ignoring Hal’s hand. ‘We
like everyone to look relaxed here. No one wants to watch presenters buttoned
up in starchy suits any more. Dress how you’d dress at home, Henry. Jeans,
sweatshirt – whatever you feel happiest in. But no blue or green or you’ll
merge with the graphics
 
and the viewers
at home won’t be able to see a bloody thing. Got it?’

Without waiting for an answer, Tim Browne swept grandly out
of the studio, two young PAs trailing obediently in his wake.

‘Don’t worry, mate,’ grunted the cameraman, peeping out from
behind his camera. ‘It’s not you. He’s always like that. Always the most
annoying plonker on the planet. You’ll get used to it. I’m Pete by the way.
Pete Burton. I guess we’ll be seeing a lot of each other over the next few
weeks. I’m working everyday over Christmas and the New Year and I’ll bet my
bottom dollar you will be too. I always volunteer before the rota goes up. It’s
a win-win situation as far as I’m concerned. The rest of the team love me
because no one else wants to do it. And I love it because it’s great overtime
and it keeps me out of the house when the in-laws are staying.’